“Dad,” I finally said.

      He turned around and his expression was a study in wonder. He gestured to the world outside. “You know, life is really beautiful.”

      I went over to the window, stood next to him. More light flooded the room, us, the yard.

      “It is, isn’t it?”

      “I’d forgotten how really wonderful life is.”

      “Most mornings I come out here and take a few minutes to enjoy it.”

      “You’re a smart girl.” He stared at me for a moment. “I was just thinking how much I’ve missed. I was always working.” He sighs. “Trying to make buildings perfect.” He glances out to the yard again. “But life doesn’t have to be perfect, does it?”

      “Maybe our flaws are beautiful, too.” I think about this, hope it’s true, feel good that we’re talking. We both stare at the yard and, suddenly, it turns bright with sunlight.

      Mary Schramski

      Mary Schramski began writing when she was about ten. The first story she wrote took place at a junior high school. Her mother told her it was good, so she immediately threw it away. She read F. Scott Fitzgerald at eleven, fell in love with storytelling and decided to teach English. She holds a Ph.D in creative writing and enjoys teaching and encouraging other writers. She lives in Nevada with her husband, and her daughter who lives close by. Visit Mary’s Web site at www.maryschramski.com.

      Falling Out of Bed

      Mary Schramski

      From the Author

      Dear Reader,

      The idea for Falling Out of Bed came to me through a conversation with a dear friend. Over cups of tea we talked about what we thought to be important in our lives, and how those ideals guide us. After our conversation, I began imagining a character struggling with what she believed in and how her family might help her evolve. Melinda is the brave protagonist in Falling Out of Bed, the one who learns about love, hope and believing in things she cannot explain.

      Sincerely,

      Mary Schramski

      www.maryschramski.com

      To you, the reader

      If winter comes, can spring be far behind?

      —Percy Bysshe Shelley

      Even the seasons form a great circle in their

      changing, and always come back again to where they were. The life of a man [woman] is a circle from childhood to childhood and so it is in everything where power moves.

      —Black Elk

      CONTENTS

      PROLOGUE

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      CHAPTER FOURTEEN

      CHAPTER FIFTEEN

      CHAPTER SIXTEEN

      CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

      CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

      CHAPTER NINETEEN

      CHAPTER TWENTY

      CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

      PROLOGUE

      Second Week in October

       I’ m on my knees by the oak tree. For my forty-second birthday my father sent me fifteen daffodil bulbs from a mail-order catalog. I don’t garden, so after I opened his gift I walked down to Elizabeth’s house and asked her how to plant them.

      She smiled, patted my shoulder. “Dig really deep, Melinda. Then wait for miracles to appear in the spring.”

      I looked at the bulbs. “All that from daffodils?”

      “Oh, they’re more than that. They prove there’s always hope.” Then she reached inside the box, touched one of the rough woodlike seeds and looked at me. “We all need hope.”

      I shook my head, laughed. “I guess you’re right, but my life’s pretty wonderful right now. I’m not sure why my father sent me these. Maybe I’ll find out someday.” I closed the box, gave her a hug and walked home.

      The telling autumn breeze washes over me and I stare at the daffodil bulb in my palm. The tiny orb looks so dark against my skin. How can something so hard and ugly produce a delicate flower?

      CHAPTER ONE

      First Week in January

       “D ad’s back still hurts,” I say as I walk into our family room. My husband is sitting in his recliner watching TV and canned laughter fills the room.

      David looks at me. “It’s probably just a pulled muscle. Your father’s healthy as a horse. He’ll be fine.”

      “I know.” Deep down I’m not sure this is true, but I press my lips together, tell myself not to worry. At seventy-two years old, Dad’s a health nut, a runner, a person who is never sick.

      David turns his attention back to the TV. The huge Sony big-screen, the actors and the fake laughter have taken over our living room as they do most nights. The woman on TV is having a baby and the entire family—husband, children and mother-in-law—are in an uproar, worried and nervous for her.

      Our lives, on the other hand, are easy. Our only child is doing well in college, by choice I haven’t worked in over a year, and David is happy. I taught junior high for eighteen years, but I quit because I was bored and dreaded going in each day. We didn’t need the money and now I spend my time volunteering at the library, thinking about what I’d like to do when I go back to work, and keeping our house immaculate.

      David, in the TV’s shimmery light, looks rested from our uneventful weekend. He laughs again and the sound echoes against the ten-foot ceilings of our home. My husband loves TV. He always has. When we were first married, I asked him why he watched so much. He explained that watching TV was the only thing to do while his mother worked nights.

      This was the opposite of what I experienced. When I was growing up, before my mother and father divorced, the four of us sat in our living room, listened to music and read.

      I guess parts of our childhoods stay with us forever.

      For a moment, there is a square of silence before another TV commercial comes on. I hear the winter wind moving outside. It is extremely cold tonight and for some silly reason I think about the daffodil bulbs I planted months ago and wonder if they are all right.

      I lie back on the couch, pull the soft beige Pottery Barn throw over my legs and open the book I was reading before Dad called. Yet the feeling my father’s backache is something more slips around me like a silk curtain.

      Every once in a while I experience a weird intuition I can’t deny. These intuitive feelings aren’t anything supernatural or scary, but since I was about eight, some things turn out exactly the way I know they will.